


Sled of Faerghus

by Nenalata



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: #1 Dad, Boring Parents In Love Are Boring, Boring Services Are Boring, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Gen, Not Safe Use Of Magic, Parenthood, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Saint Cichol Day, Sledding, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21899683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: Father was a terrible singer.Mother was a good one.Their daughter didn't evenwantto sing.It was Saint Cichol Day in the Duchy of Fraldarius, and while all the other kids were out sledding, she was stuck in church beingbored.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 15
Kudos: 70
Collections: Felannie Secret Santa Gifts of 2019, Honest Reasons to Fight





	Sled of Faerghus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pfle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pfle/gifts).



> Secret Santa prompt from the Felannie server on Discord! [Pfle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pfle) requested Felannie parents bonding and playing in the snow with their child, and who was I to deny them?

Father was a terrible singer.

Dulce Cassia Fraldarius knew this because she was stuck next to him in the pew, and because Father was stuck in the pew at all. It was Saint Cichol Day, and Father had grumbled and mumbled about how much he didn’t want to attend the vigil in the city cathedral even while Mother pranced about throwing jewelry at him. Mother was excited in a way neither Father nor daughter were. Mother always sang well, and was currently doing so on the _other_ side of Father, where Dulce was not. Dulce, in her itchy wool sweater and tight pinchy boots that Mother had insisted she’d better well like.

Dulce did not, in fact, like them. She would much rather be sledding.

But she was not, which was annoying. And Father was even more annoying to sit next to. He never joined in on Mother’s lullabies and humming, although he always attended that bedtime ceremony with pleasure. Dulce knew why, but Saint Days only came around a handful of times a year. It was very easy to forget just how terrible he was and how much he didn’t like to be reminded of this fact, either.

Father also had to wear that fancy shield he hated. It was a public event for Duke and Duchess Fraldarius, and the people, so said Father with no attempt at hiding the distaste in his voice, liked to see the _Shield of Faerghus_ still…something-something shielding them like the something-something last Shield of Faerghus. Some hushed phrase Mother had still chided him for.

Right now, Dulce kind of hated it too. While Father was typically so graceful and aware of _everything_ , could always just… _sense_ when she was tiptoeing around the pantry well past her bedtime, his dismissive contempt for the event had him clanking on the pew each time they stood. Knelt. Rose. Sat. Stood. Rose. Sat. Clank. Clank. Clank.

Dulce was going crazy. Her boots were pinchy and her sweater was itchy. She leaned over her knees to tug at the boots, but Father’s firm but gentle hand on her back had her sitting up again. Then standing, because it was time to do that _again_.

“Is it almost over?” she mouthed at him. Father shook his head and put two calloused fingers on her pouting lips. She’d asked that twice, apparently. Three times, and she’d get a talking-to after.

Finally, even Father got tired of his own terrible singing voice. He just mumbled along with the prayers: enough to look like he was doing his job as Duke, but not enough to keep being annoying and bad. He did keep looking at Mother, making his sharp features go all soft around the edges. Dulce understood why. Mother was a mage, and Father always did say he was under her spell: she really was the only one who could unfurrow his brow, curl his lips into a smile.

Right now, Mother was all round with her own smile and red in her cheeks. She sang her heart out next to Father’s barely-there prayers. Dulce, with her left leg resting sneakily on the pew seat while they stood for the millionth time, could see Mother’s own feet tapping along, like they were ready to just start grooving and waltzing on their own. She practically wiggled when the choir pauses at the best part of the chant, the seconds before the song got _really_ intense and dramatic. Mother looked like she wanted to go wild, even closed her eyes, froze, and bounced in place hard when the choir got started again.

Father choked on his prayer in a suspiciously giggly way. Dulce kind of felt the way Mother did, that the way the choir’s voices just echoed and then dropped and then rose again was pretty intense. Dulce had been taught these prayers in school, but she had not learned them. Mother sang them better.

This was just as boring as droning along with the prayers she hadn’t wanted to be taught. The entire cathedral sat. They stood. They knelt. They rose. They knelt. They sat. All singing those dumb songs.

She tried her luck with her Mother, leaning just past the hilt of Father’s second-best sword. “Is it almost over?” Whispered this time, not mouthed. _Oops_. Mother glanced at Father, who flicked three fingers by his belt, and Mother nodded. But glared a little, too.

Dulce glared at her pinchy boots right back. She’d asked _Mother_ , not Father. It shouldn’t count. But she admittedly had been taking advantage of how her name—Dul-S-ay Ca-SS-i-a Fraldari-u-S—had so many hissing sounds: her parents couldn’t snap her full name without alerting the entire front row to their disobedient child.

Finally, finally, finally, finally, the vigil ended. And, sure enough, Mother snapped her full name the second they smiled, frowned, and pouted their way past the most devout citizens of the Duchy.

“Dulce Cassia Fraldarius,” Mother chastised as harshly as she seemed capable, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you!”

“Me, neither,” Dulce agreed, hoping Mother would be shocked enough she’d suggest letting her stay home next time.

“Everyone around us could hear you!”

“They could hear Father singing, too.”

If Dulce didn’t know him better, she would say Father laughed. It was more of a scoff, though. “Unfortunately true.”

“He’s _terrible_.”

Yes. Definitely a scoff now. “I never claimed otherwise. You, however, claimed you were a _big girl_ capable of behaving.”

Dulce had claimed no such thing. Dulce had, rather, claimed she was a big girl capable of walloping the crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus with any of Grandfather’s wooden dolls the boy had _broken_ when he’d promised just to _hold_ it—

“They’re only an hour! And everyone sings so pretty—uh, except for Father, who is _trying_.” Oh. Mother was speaking again. Dulce refocused her ears. “I swear, honey, one would think you’d been raised by…by…”

“Swamp bears?” Dulce suggested, humming last night’s tune hopefully.

“Yes! Exactly! Swamp bears! I can’t—wait. _No_ , you—”

Father did laugh now, openly and heartily. Not like anyone else’s belly-laugh father, but that warm and quiet chuckle he so rarely offered. “It was a good song, that one.”

“Was it? Really, you liked it?”

The two of them strolled ahead, Dulce’s crimes against the Duchy and Saint Cichol forgotten. She slipped her mittened hand into Mother’s, disappointed how the wool and leather kept her from feeling her mother’s soft skin. Father had her other arm crooked around his elbow. The three of them walked along, her parents nice and slow to help Dulce’s _slightly_ shorter legs keep up.

And then they stopped.

“Felix, it’s a holiday. Do you really need another sword?”

“I don’t _need_ one. I _want_ one.”

“And you want…that one? It’s kind of, um…you know, it’s a little…”

“A little…what?”

“Big. Two-handed kind of big.”

“Are you saying I can’t manage it?”

“No! I’m saying you don’t _usually_ have—”

Dulce freed herself from Mother’s grip without resistance. Mother used her liberated hand to gesture her point to a vaguely-amused Father. He just looked so _smug_ and Mother looked so _exuberant_ and they were both so _loud_ and Dulce had _not been allowed to be_ and—

They were walking again, but slowly, apparently leaving the smithy for the time being. “Hurry up, honey,” Mother called, but she didn’t check on Dulce long enough once it was clear she was coming down the paved hill with them.

Because Mother’s dress was very pretty, but Father was wearing a cloak. And Father, like Mother, had his back turned.

Dulce scooped up a mitten full of snow, packed it into a ball, and chucked it as hard as she could at her father.

And as if he’d been expecting her to, he caught it in his gloved hand. Without a flinch. Without a glance. Stopping in his tracks, alerting Mother to the threat their daughter had become.

And crushed it in his palm.

Despite the dread suddenly pooling in Dulce’s stomach, a perverse pleasure surged through her at the way the people milling about their little pocket of nobility grew quiet. Father stood stone still in the street for far too long for him to be _really_ serious, but Mother still was quiet with raised, pinched brows, like even she was trying to figure out Father’s yet-unseen expression.

Dulce saw it first.

He turned around, a slow, gentle curve, thick boots barely brushing a circle in the snow. Only Dulce caught the pleased, evil, amused smile ghosting across his face when he said, “Nice throw.”

Dulce was not as adept at hiding her expressions. She beamed and crossed her mittened hands over her itchy wool sweater and sweltering cloak, over her heart. _Nice throw_ , huh?

Father shrugged off that huge shield with their family’s Crest on it. Threw it on the ground, like it weighed nothing—Dulce knew for a fact this was not true, as she had tried lifting it once before it had fallen on her with a resounding _clang_ and Mother had insulted her by trying not to howl with laughter when she followed the source of the embarrassing sound and her only daughter’s cries for assistance.

Oh, Father was doing things again. Dulce unglazed her stare from the shield and paid attention to the way he had yanked off his scarf and was tying it around the shield handle. When it was securely fastened, he gestured to it. Dulce stared.

“Well?” he asked her impatiently. Mother clasped her hands together.

“Felix, I don’t know if…”

Father only quirked a brow at her, that faint smile still tugging at his lips, and for some reason, Mother’s cheeks filled with glowing pink even though the brisk air nipped at Dulce’s own exposed face.

Father jerked his head meaningfully at the shield again, grabbing his daughter’s attention. “Well?” he repeated. “Hop on.”

It had snowed heavily the night before, and the streets and hills were packed nice and firm. Dulce had watched enviously from her bedroom window and then the cathedral stained glass while other kids in town zipped around on their wooden sleds _without_ her.

Other fun winter activities Dulce had not enjoyed in her six years of life included skating on the ponds and rivers that had frozen over. Not the ocean, because apparently even the ocean couldn’t freeze, but the rivers near Sreng had been concerning many Kingdom soldiers, generals, and lords. Kingdom regular people, however, had not been overly concerned. Dulce had also watched enviously while cheerful-looking kids zoomed around on solid ice, _also_ without her.

Dulce, unlike the sledding—which had happened occasionally, when she wasn’t stuck with people and parents singing (mostly) badly to make the Saints (un)happy—was not allowed to skate. She was, according to her father, too young to drown in a frozen moat. Said father refused to ruin her lucky streak in how many injuries she had thus far _avoided_ in her ridiculously short time on this world. The crown piggy and his something-something Mother-forbidden-phrase had, according to the boar king, smashed all his toys not once but _twice_ and cried each time he “hurt” them. Something-something-“hush, Felix”-Crest of Blaiddyd, the only reason _our_ kid hasn’t been Blaiddyd to the next millennium festival is because she can take the blond brat out in one swing—

“Are you coming or are you coming?” Father sounded impatient, like _he_ was the one in danger of missing out on fun. Dulce needed no further encouragement. She ran down the hill like she was being chased by Demonic Beasts, almost to the shield, _hopped_ —

Father pulled the shield just out of range, and Dulce’s face planted into the snow.

“Felix!”

“My hand slipped.”

Both her parents sounded _far_ too pleased with the way their _beloved child_ was sputtering and licking her mittens to get the snow out of her mouth. “You’re so mean!” But Dulce laughed through her words, and some sort of weird tension left her parents’ shoulders. “Give it back!”

“I can’t give you _back_ anything if you haven’t managed to get it at all.”

Dulce scrambled to her feet, nearly slipping in her haste. “You’re on!” she challenged him. Father smirked.

“And _you’re_ off.”

That was _enough_. Dulce took a deep breath, stared that cruel shield down, took an even better running start, an even bigger jump—

—and ate snow again. “Father!” she wailed, laughing a little less, but only because her own black hair had gotten tangled in with the snow. The glee of competition rushed through her veins, and judging by the way that stupid smirk was growing on Father’s face, he _knew_ it.

“You can do it, Dulce-baby! Don’t let him get to you!” Mother cheered, and all of a sudden, Dulce remembered she _had_ paid attention in school at least a _little_ bit.

“He’s too mean! I can’t do it!” Dulce huffed. The words felt icky in her icy mouth, cowardly and full of lies. But the sympathy melting Mother’s face made it worth it: Father saw it, saw her bite her lip, pinch her brows as tight as Dulce’s dumb boots. He hesitated, and Dulce saw her chance.

She _ran_. No, she did one better than a simple little run-and-hop: she cast her brand-new wind spell, propelling her so fast through the air towards the shield she felt a little queasy.

Not only did Father _still_ yank it away, just out of reach—because his reflexes were so much better than hers and sometimes Dulce hated him for the way he could push sweets out of her reach—but she had overshot her spell anyway. She crashed into the snow flat on her stomach, on her ugly cloak and itchy sweater.

Was this what Father meant when he talked about the furious thrill of battle?

She spat more snow out of her mouth while Father’s familiar bootsteps crunched fast and worried over to her. That stupid shield clanked after him. “You should have warned me you were trying again!” he snapped, in that embarrassed way of his when he didn’t want to show he was concerned. “Dulce, you could have been hurt.”

The fear in his voice, Dulce noted while Mother pulled her out of the snow pile, would be a useful weakness to exploit next time she tried. Mother’s warm, magicked hands dusted snow off her, melting and drying those nice and pretty clothes Dulce hated.

“You shouldn’t be casting spells like that. Wind spells can be really dangerous unsupervised!” Mother scolded in a much more direct fashion than Father. Dulce bowed her head, stubborn and proud.

“But I—”

“I’ll take care of next time. Okay, honey? It’s okay if you want to sled, but you really need to ask first.”

Dulce blinked, and Mother smiled, tucking her black hair behind her ear and adjusting her slightly-less-itchy hat. “What?”

“I’m really sorry. We should have let you sled earlier. Right?”

The question was aimed at Father, who grunted his apologetic assent.

“Yeah,” Dulce agreed. “Thank you,” she added begrudgingly. “Does this mean I can sled now?”

Mother beamed, and Dulce was pretty sure her own face got as pink as Father’s.

Mother was _magical_.

“How about we all sled? No,” she gasped, “what if we all _race_? That’ll be more fun. Right, Felix?”

Father did not reply. He was too busy gaping at her, like Mother had suggested they all crack open the nearest pond and hop in completely naked.

Dulce felt much the same. _Her_ parents? Sled? Like they were kids? Father, with his three swords and million belts and big old cloak and clunky shield and bad singing voice? Mother, with her elegant dress and perfectly combed hair and subtle makeup and fancy footwork and spells to light fireplaces and keep monsters at bay?

 _Race_ their own daughter on _sleds_?

“Unless,” Mother said lightly, “His Grace is too refined and awkward for sled-racing?”

Her voice was so obviously bubbly with teasing, but Dulce wasn’t too surprised when Father’s ears turned red and he mumbled, “Let’s go home. I’ll choose some shields from the armory.”

Dulce wriggled out of Mother’s glowing hands and hopped up and down. “I want to ride on the Shield of Faerghus!”

She shouldn’t have been surprised by how quickly _both_ Mother and Father whirled around and said “ _No_ ,” but she was, however, very disappointed.

Back at Castle Fraldarius, the Duke, Duchess, and Heir headed out to battle each other on the slopes.

Mother’s sled of choice was a heavy steel shield, to support her tiny, light frame. Father had fun helping her try out a variety; he hadn’t pulled the same mean trick on Mother, which Dulce privately found a bit unfair, but he did make Mother laugh by making her balance on a trail of shields like stepping stones.

Father got an iron shield, plain and simple, because he “didn’t need anything fancier to win.” He was probably right, but Dulce would take the higher ground—literally—and let him continue to feel proud of himself.

For her part, Dulce’s choice had only been in the pattern. She had been offered several selections, but all of them had the same quality: iron-reinforced silver shields with steel lining and leather-padded straps, because “I’m not contributing to Faerghus’s infant mortality rate by putting our kid on a broken sled.”

Dulce hadn’t understood, but Mother had shoosh-hushed him with a _very_ severe glare, bad enough even Dulce wilted and Father apologized. She didn’t care very much, even if her parents started explaining jokes she didn’t get.

Her parents were going _sledding_ with her.

Dulce might not be allowed to skate on the moat. She might have been forced into stupid church services while other kids went out sledding and laughing. She might have been forced into itchy wool clothes Mother had insisted were _darling_ on her but _could not take off_ because it would keep her _toasty warm_ and she should not _under any circumstances tear off those buttons, your grandfather carved them himself_ …

But no kid other than Dulce got to crash a fancy shield into Duke Fraldarius, making _him_ eat ice for once, and see the Duchess magically fly off her own shield-sled to catch the both of them in a laughing, freezing cuddle.

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely not inspired by [this vine.](https://youtu.be/SGdn0-aSSZc) Happy winter!!


End file.
